


A Compliation of Culmets Ficlets

by NoahAndTheRain



Series: Ficlet Compilations [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, Ficlets, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, basically... everything? they're ficlets? hopefully you'll find something you like, multiple one shots actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-04-20 06:22:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14254872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoahAndTheRain/pseuds/NoahAndTheRain
Summary: A bunch of ficlets written from prompts (and a few that I just wanted to write thrown in for good measure)If there are any triggers, they'll be in the notes before each ficlet.I'm still doing these!!  So you can send me prompts by commenting, messaging me here oron tumblr.  Hope you enjoy!





	1. But He Frowned Like Thunder and He Went Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Hugh’s back and everyone’s happy. It’s all really great. One, would-be dull night there’s a party, and for once both Hugh and Paul can make it. Except Hugh’s going to be working a little later than Paul, so he’ll meet him there. So Paul goes to the party and orders a gin and tonic. Everyone’s enjoying themselves. It’s great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kicking off with one I just wrote of my own volition! I headcanon Paul as having ADHD, so this is a little play around with how RSD can be a bitch.
> 
> The ficlet title is from W. H. Auden's poem _Johnny_

Paul watches Hugh from across the room.  Hugh’s talking to Tilly and Detmer and some other doctor Paul is very aware he should have learnt the name of by now.  Hugh says something, and they all laugh.  The music’s too loud and Paul’s too far away for it to be true but he’d swear that yes he can he them laughing.  They’re standing there with their drinks, all smiles and easy conversation.  Hugh hasn’t looked for Paul since he arrived.  He’s been through three rounds of this happy chatting and he hasn’t even turned his eyes to Paul.  And it’s fine.  Everyone loves Hugh.  Hugh’s funny, really funny – his jibing is clearly all wit, no daggers.  He’s kind really.  It doesn’t lie beneath the surface.  He’ll take you down a peg or two, yes, he’s honest like that.  He doesn’t let you get away with bullshit, and everyone respects him for it.  Because he doesn’t let you get away with thinking badly of yourself when you shouldn’t.  He’ll honestly tell you that you’re rude.  He’ll honestly tell you that you’re wonderful.  He’ll say something at a party and everyone will laugh.  And look at that: they’re laughing again. 

Paul downs his drink and leaves.  Hugh will make his way back to their room when he’s ready.  He’ll probably be tired and tipsy and just about manage to change into pyjamas – leaving his uniform in a heap on the floor – before collapsing onto their bed.  Paul will hang up the uniform and put his shoes away.  He’ll have brushed his teeth alone again. 

Hugh’s always been popular at parties.  And… generally.  Paul never really thought much of it.  Okay, sometimes it would get in his head – what the hell was this amazing, dazzling doctor doing with socially inept mad scientist who talks to his mushrooms?  But at least Hugh would hold his hand the whole time.  Hugh would kiss his cheek and promise Paul he was more than worth his love.  That Paul could make Hugh laugh. 

One of the first things Hugh said to Paul was “you think you’re funny”.  Think.  Paul hadn’t bothered about it at the time – it was a snide remark from a handsome stranger.  But Hugh’s honest like that.  He meant it.  “You’re rude, and you think you’re funny.”  _But you’re not.  You’re just obnoxious._   It seems Hugh’s changed his mind, sure, but what if sometimes he regrets getting in so deep with Paul?  That doctor at the party was making Hugh laugh.  Hugh might be better off falling for him. 

See, this is the thing.  Paul thought that occasionally, before, yes, but since Hugh came back it’s constantly on Paul’s mind.  Everyone’s always so happy to see Hugh.  They nod at Paul, and get on with talking to Hugh.  Sometimes, Hugh will squeeze Paul’s arm and sort of smile because he just has to dash off with this cadet from communications and Paul understands, doesn’t he?  Paul gets it, of course he does.  They’ll get lunch together tomorrow.  Except Hugh will be working through lunch tomorrow.  Dinner, though?  Probably.  Possibly- maybe.  If he can.  Hugh keeps getting put on the night shift, see, so it makes things difficult.  Paul’s fucking sick of brushing his teeth alone. 

So, having escaped from the party, having maybe had one too many gin and tonics, Paul wanders the hallways alone.  His feet take him to his door, but his mind pulls him past it.  He keeps walking.  Something stirs in his gut: he won’t be home when Hugh gets back from the party, drunk and grinning and not noticing that Paul isn’t laughing at his jokes. 

It’s stupid.  Paul is very aware that he’s being very stupid.  Hugh has friends – that’s great!  Hugh loves him.  Hugh says that he loves him.  He does love him, doesn’t he?  He’s just had a lot of work catching up, and everyone’s dragging him every which way because they’ve missed him too.  And Hugh’s… accommodating them.   Because they don’t share quarters with him.  He’s not prioritising them, he’s just giving them the time they deserve.  And if that’s more time than he gives Paul then it probably doesn’t mean anything.  It’s not that Hugh’s not giving Paul the time.  It’s not that Hugh’s not giving Paul the time of day.  Is it? 

Paul ends up in rec room nobody uses.  It’s got a pool table and floor-to-ceiling windows.  The lights turn on automatically when Paul enters, but he tells the computer to turn them off again.  No need for them.  He wanders over to the windows.  There are so many stars out there.  So many systems, most of them unexplored.  So much life.  So much potential. 

Paul sits, his back to the wall, and gazes out into this universe.  This is the one where he belongs.  This is the one where Hugh belongs.  They fit here, and they fit together here.  That shouldn’t be past tense. 

Hugh’s back.  And it’s great.  It is. 

It’s great. 

Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [more info on RSD](https://www.additudemag.com/rejection-sensitive-dysphoria-how-to-treat-it-alongside-adhd/)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [support me with ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain)
> 
>  
> 
> [send me a prompt](https://godblessintheflesh.tumblr.com) \- I also accept prompts in the comments and through messages here on AO3!


	2. Your Worship is the Last Man in My Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "the first time they spent the night together :')" from [stellaviatorii](https://stellaviatorii.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Thank you gene you wonderful person <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet is explicit - shocking, I know, given the prompt.
> 
> The title is from Shakespeare's _The Merchant of Venice_

Hugh is a complete gentleman.  After their first date, it was a just peck on the cheek at Paul’s door.  On the second, he kissed his lips, soft and sweet but enough to leave Paul’s head spinning.  On their third date, Hugh is still a complete gentleman, and so of course he’s completely gentlemanly in the way he asks Paul if he wants to come back to his apartment for a nightcap.  And Paul likes Hugh – he _really_ likes Hugh – so the anxiety that’s been stewing in his stomach about Hugh being way out of his league isn’t quite strong enough to make him refuse. 

The thing is, it doesn’t feel like it’s only their third date.  They video-chatted more times than Paul could count before their first official date.  That time, Hugh came to Deneva; they had lunch and Paul showed Hugh the lab and Hugh had to return to his posting before the day was out.  The second date was on Starbase 32 – Hugh was there for a medical conference and Paul was giving a lecture and they had dinner in a rooftop restaurant overlooking the sparkling city; a stunning view which was nothing compared the company.  And now they’re actually back on Earth.  Paul had visited his sister and her wife, and Hugh has a place in New York City so of course they arranged a date.  And the date was amazing, and now Hugh’s taking Paul’s hand. 

Hugh’s apartment is a short walk from the restaurant and the evening is warm and the moon is gazing down at the pair as they amble along the yellow streets.  Paul absolutely adores the feeling of Hugh’s hand in his own.  Hugh’s got amazing hands.  There’s a fluttering in Paul’s stomach as the thought strikes him that he may be about to find out just what Hugh can do with those amazing hands.  He swallows thickly and glances across to Hugh.  Hugh was gazing up at the night sky, but his eyes have trailed back to Paul’s face. 

“Everything alright?” he asks.  His brow has pulled together in concern. 

“Yes,” Paul replies, very certainly.  “Yes.” 

Hugh squeezes Paul’s hand and God that feels nice.  “Good.” 

It’s only about ten minutes back to Hugh’s apartment.  It’s a nice building, and Hugh’s all the way up on the twenty second floor.  They chat lightly about nothing much in the elevator, but Paul’s just itching for Hugh’s perfect lips.  Their hands are joined the whole time. 

Hugh walks Paul down the hallway to his apartment – 2208 – and has to take his hand back to unlock the door.  Paul already misses the touch. 

“Welcome to Chateau Culber,” Hugh announces as he pushes the door open for Paul to enter first.  Paul’s heart is beating pretty damn fast. 

On entering the space, Paul hesitates.  ‘Chateau Culber’ is messy.  No, Chateau Culber is a tip.  There seems to have been an attempt made to hang the jackets up on hooks by the door, but two of the three of them are on the floor.  There’s a desk on one side of the room with about a million tablets and Starfleet PADDs and… is that actual paper?  It’s all scattered over the desk, anyway.

Hugh’s got a kitchenette on one side of the apartment, sectioned off by a cluttered counter with bar stools beside it.  There’s a small dining table with three chairs, and Paul doesn’t want to think about how long those bowls have been there.  On the other side of the room: an old couch, an armchair, and in front of them a coffee table, and a screen projector.  The couch has a rather lovely throw tossed on one side, and an image of Hugh curled up in it and watching some scary movie flashes through Paul’s mind.  It’s a nice image.  Sure, the crap all over the coffee table detracts from it a little, but it’s still a nice image.  It’s a nice apartment.  Just… a bit of a pigsty. 

And Paul is well aware that he should not comment on the mess, so he bites his lip and turns back to Hugh.  Hugh’s managed to get his jacket on the peg this time, and is now taking off his shoes. 

“Do you want me to…?” Paul asks. 

“If you don’t mind?” 

Paul complies, but he can’t help thinking that it’s a bit bizarre for Hugh to have a problem with shoes on his carpet, but not ancient crockery.  Wait, there’s crockery on the carpet.  How is he attracted to this man? 

“Sorry it’s a bit messy – I’ve been so busy prepping for next week that I’ve hardly had time to clean up,” Hugh says, and he’s fixing Paul with that gentle grin, and oh yeah that’s how. 

Paul’s a bit weak at the knees.  “I hardly noticed.”  He wonders if Hugh can tell he’s lying. 

Whether or not he does seems irrelevant, however, as Hugh wanders over to the kitchenette.  “Drink?” he asks.

“Sure,” Paul replies.  Of course – Hugh’s a gentleman; he wasn’t going to invite Paul back for a nightcap and then skip the nightcap part. 

“What’s your poison?” 

“What have you got?”

Hugh flashes his beautiful smile.  “I’ve got a few wines, scotch, Baileys…  I could make you a martini if you like?” 

Paul hops up on the stool beside the counter.  “Martini sounds great.” 

“I don’t have any martini glasses though,” Hugh says, opening a cupboard and pulling out a lowball glass instead.   

“Not a problem.” 

Paul watches Hugh as he cracks open the bottles and splashes the vermouth and then gin into the glass, and Hugh’s got this soft almost-smirk on his face the whole time, like he knows how Paul adores those hands of his and everything they can do.  Then he grabs a cocktail stick from a little box in another cupboard and moves over to the fridge.  An olive later and Paul has a complete martini pushed across the counter towards him.  Hugh pulls out a wine glass and pours himself a some red. 

“Wait, I thought you’d be having a martini too,” Paul says as Hugh sticks the cork back in the bottle and picks up his glass. 

“I’m more of a wine guy,” replies Hugh, and he’s wandering around the counter now to Paul’s side. 

Paul grabs his own glass and swivels round on his stool.  “But then you opened those new bottles for nothing.”

“I opened them for you,” Hugh says.  “You’re not nothing.” 

Wow.  Butterflies. 

“Besides,” Hugh continues, having taken a sip of his wine, “I have like a whole jar of olives to get through.  You’re doing me a favour.”

Pressing his lips together, Paul swirls his drink around with the cocktail stick. 

Hugh’s brow furrows.  “What?”

“I, uh…”  Paul takes the olive-laden stick from the glass and holds it up.  A sparkling drop of the martini drips onto his thumb and snakes down to his wrist.  “I don’t actually like olives.”

“Oh.”  Hugh steps closer to Paul and those butterflies in Paul’s stomach are really going for it now.  “Well I do.  May I?” 

“Go for it,” Paul replies, and his voice is breathier than it was a moment ago. 

He’d assumed Hugh would just take the whole cocktail stick, but no – Hugh wraps his hand around Paul’s, pulling Paul’s hand forward as he moves closer still.  In a slow, deliberate movement, Hugh teases the olive from the cocktail stick with his teeth, and then, oh holy _shit_ and then he presses his mouth to Paul’s wrist and licks the stray drop away, chasing its trail up Paul’s thumb.  And then he lets go of Paul’s hand and steps back again with that tantalising smirk on his face.  “Thanks,” he says, light as anything. 

Paul just takes a deep breath, and drinks half his martini in one go.  As Hugh raises his glass once more to his lips, he’s chuckling. 

“What?” Paul asks, shifting a little on his stool. 

Hugh’s reply comes with still more light laughter: “You.” 

“What about me?” 

“You’re adorable,” Hugh says, tilting his head to one side. 

“Adorable?” Paul echoes, and okay he’s slightly affronted.  He’s not supposed to be _adorable_ , he’s a grown man for God’s sake.  He’s trying to have a romantic evening with Hugh, and he’s just been given the same status as a teddy bear. 

“Yeah,” Hugh says, and oh wow okay he’s getting closer again.  His voice lowers: “and I bet you’d look absolutely _adorable_ spread out on my bed.” 

Paul’s eyes flick to Hugh’s lips.  “Oh,” he breathes.  Wow, Paul, way to sound intelligent.  But Hugh’s actually really close now and Paul’s mind is short-circuiting.  “Wanna find out?” 

Hugh grins.  “Definitely.” 

And then he’s kissing him.  It’s soft and gentle and Hugh’s lips are warm with wine, and Paul almost spills his martini on Hugh’s beautiful wooden floorboards.  But then Hugh’s prising the glass out of Paul’s hand, still intent on kissing him, and Paul hears it clink against the counter and then Hugh’s hands are cupping his face and Paul spreads his legs to let Hugh get closer to him and Paul’s mind is completely gone now.  And it’s wonderful. 

But Paul wants Hugh closer still, and he wraps his arms around Hugh’s waist, pulling him in.  And then Hugh’s hands move; he runs his fingers through Paul’s white-blond locks and then they’re curling around the hair at the nape of his neck.  At the slight tug, Paul’s breath catches, he tilts his head into Hugh’s hands.  His breathing is suddenly shallow.

“Is that okay?” Hugh asks, and he’s still close enough that his lips brush against Paul’s. 

“Yeah, that’s…”  Paul takes a couple of slightly deeper breaths.  “That’s good.”

There it is again: that gorgeous smirk.  “Noted,” Hugh says, and his voice is full of that mischievous spark, that stunning tone just the same as when they met at the shuttle station – _I look forward to it_. 

Paul closes the gap between them again, this time kissing Hugh with greater urgency, his tongue slipping into Hugh’s mouth.  Hugh tugs again, gentle as anything, on Paul’s hair.  A jolt of electricity sparks in Paul’s pelvis.  He moans into Hugh’s mouth.  And Hugh, apparently, likes that. 

Hugh pulls away from Paul’s lips to kiss along his jaw.  Instinctively, Paul tilts his head back so Hugh can kiss and nip his way up to Paul’s ear, and oh this is magical.  Paul hooks his legs around Hugh to tug him ever closer, and now they’re pressed so close together the stool is in danger of tipping. 

Hugh rolls Paul’s earlobe between his teeth and Paul’s eyes close.  God, that feels good. 

“Did you have your ears pierced?” Hugh asks, his breath oh so soft against Paul’s ear. 

Paul hums ascent.  “A long time ago.” 

“That’s really hot.” 

That voice, holy shit, and the way he nibbles at Paul’s ear… not for the first time, a thought crosses Paul’s mind, and it just slips out on his heated breath: “You’re incredible.”

“Thanks,” Hugh smirks. 

And then Hugh rubs his crotch against Paul’s, and Paul can feel him half-hard through his trousers.  Shit, okay, this is really happening. 

Maybe Hugh’s a mind reader, or maybe Paul went stiff or something, but Hugh pulls back a little.  Paul sits up.  Hugh looks Paul in the eye, and it’s stunning and a little terrifying and utterly, utterly beautiful.  “You sure you want to do this?” he asks, his voice gentle as butterflies’ wings. 

Paul swallows thickly.  He could drown in those eyes, and he really wouldn’t mind.  “Yes,” he says.  And then he hops up off the stool and grabs Hugh by his open collar, pulling him round and towards what Paul assumes is the bedroom door.  They’ve barely taken a step, however, when Paul tugs Hugh in again and presses their lips together.  “Yes,” he says again, against Hugh’s mouth. 

An ounce of concern leaks into the back of Paul’s mind.  He pulls back again, his hands still gripping Hugh’s collar.  “Are you?” 

Hugh doesn’t say anything.  Instead, he grabs Paul’s hips and drags him back into the kiss, hot and heavy and he’s sucking on Paul’s bottom lip, and his fingers are fumbling with the buttons on Paul’s shirt, and once he’s got it open he slips his hands under the shirt and it’s skin against skin and it’s glorious.  And then Hugh drags his lips away again, just for a moment.  “I’m sure,” he says. 

Paul kisses him again, and one of Hugh’s hands has worked its way around to Paul’s back, tugging him closer.  The other hand finds one of Paul’s nipples and his fingers brush over it, circle it, and Paul moans. 

Hugh moves his mouth to kiss Paul’s cheek, and laughter bubbles up in his throat.  “You make the most adorable sounds,” he says. 

“You keep using that word,” Paul replies, and he’s only sort of complaining – which really isn’t bad for Paul. 

“You are adorable,” Hugh says simply, kissing Paul’s jaw, moving to his neck now.  “And it’s sexy as hell.” 

Paul swallows.  “You think I’m sexy?” he asks, sort of nonplussed.  Paul knows himself, and he knows he is not sexy. 

“Paul,” Hugh sighs, and he straightens up to look Paul in the face again.  “I think you are the hottest fucking thing in the universe.” 

That… can’t be right.  Paul just blinks.  “You what?”  Okay fuck Hugh for managing to make him sound like an idiot – Paul has a PhD for Christ’s sake, this shouldn’t happen-

But Hugh’s interrupting his thoughts again.  “You are the sexiest man I have ever met.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.  You could make me do anything – tell me to do anything, and I would do it.”  Hugh runs his hand down Paul’s back to his ass, and again presses himself closer.  When he speaks again, his voice is lower: “Tell me what you want, and I will do it.” 

“ _You_ ,” Paul says, his voice barely more than a breath, “are the hottest fucking thing in the universe.” 

Hugh closes his mouth over Paul’s once more and then he’s sucking on his lower lip again – holy _shit_ Hugh is good at that.  He breaks the kiss off far too soon. 

“What do you want, baby?”

“I want…”  Paul licks his lips, his eyes flicking over Hugh’s perfect features.  “I want to look at you.  I want to see you.”  Paul’s hands are already flicking to Hugh’s shirt, nearly pulling off the buttons as he tears it open, and Hugh works up from the bottom and as soon as it’s undone he lets it slip from his shoulders. 

Holy shit. 

How does a guy like _that_ think Paul is in any way attractive? 

“Wow,” is all Paul manages to articulate. 

Hugh laughs again, that gorgeous sound.  “I could say the same about you,” he says. 

Paul laughs too, but it’s little more sardonic than joyous.  “You could not.” 

“You don’t think?”

“Have you seen you?  And have you seen me?” 

“Yes,” Hugh replies, plain and simple.  “I’m looking at your right now Paul, and honestly, _wow_.” 

Paul’s in the middle of an eye roll when Hugh reaches out and tugs him back in by his shirt.  He presses open-mouthed kisses to Paul’s neck, and Paul’s eyes sink closed again. 

“Wow,” Hugh breathes between each kiss.  “Wow.”  He nips under Paul’s chin.  “Wow.”  He kisses down to Paul’s Adam’s apple. “Wow.”  He sucks hard at the soft skin by Paul’s collarbone.  Paul moans again.  Hugh’s hands are back where they were before, one on Paul’s chest and the other on his ass, and judging from the bulge pressed against Paul’s leg, Hugh means it.

Hugh means it now. 

“You’re incredible,” Hugh breathes.  “You’re gorgeous.  You’re perfect-”

“I haven’t had surgery!” Paul says – well, yells – so quickly that Hugh takes a moment to work out whether Paul’s speaking English at all. 

Hugh pulls his head up so he can look Paul in the face, but his hand is still against his chest.  “What?” 

Paul takes a few deep breaths, and honestly he’s sort of hating how Hugh can probably feel just how fast his heart is pumping.  “I…”  He tails off again.  But he’s got to say it, he knows he’s got to say it, and he knows what it’ll probably mean and shit now his stomach is twisting and not in the nice way.  “I haven’t had surgery,” he says, quite plainly. 

Hugh just blinks at him. 

“Well, I’ve had top surgery,” Paul continues, looking off into the middle-distance so as to avoid confronting Hugh’s expression.  “Obviously.  You probably realised that’s what those scars are.  But not bottom surgery.  I should have told you that before now, I know, but there was never a good segue into it and…” – oh God, he’s in it now so he might as well get in it up to the neck – “I wanted to keep you for as long as I could.  I’m sorry, I know that’s terrible.  But like… I’m not particularly handsome, face-wise, and I’m chubby, and you’re all this.”  Paul runs his hands up Hugh’s toned back at this, flicking his gaze over that beautiful chest, his arms, his hands settling now again in the small of Hugh’s back.  “I mean, not that me being trans should really contribute to that, but I thought you should know I don’t have what you were probably expecting to find, and also I completely understand if you don’t want to have sex with me.” 

Paul still hasn’t met Hugh’s eye.  For a moment after this garbled response, there’s a stunned silence.  But for some reason Paul can’t discern, Hugh’s still got one hand under his shirt and the other on his ass and he’s still pretty hard, actually.  And then Hugh’s mouth is pressed with such fervour against Paul’s that it almost hurts.  And Hugh’s thumb brushes over Paul’s nipple as he sucks on his lip and what the fuck this was not what Paul was expecting. 

Hugh pulls back again after what Paul thinks is nowhere near enough of that, and this time Paul meets his eye.  There’s a fire there like Paul has never seen. 

“I will worship every inch of you,” Hugh breathes, and his breath is as hot as his eyes and heavy as a promise.  And then Hugh kisses Paul again, hard, nipping his bottom lip, his hand moving around now to press his hand against the front of Paul’s trousers.  Paul can feel himself melting.  Hugh’s fingers brush the fabric around Paul’s crotch and Paul moans into Hugh’s mouth again. 

And then Hugh’s breaking off the kiss and tugging Paul to the sofa.  His mind foggy now with heat, with total desire, Paul moves with Hugh through the clutter on the floor until they reach the tatty couch.  Again, Hugh pulls Paul into him, this time pressing his mouth to Paul’s neck.  He nibbles Paul’s lily white skin, sucks bright red marks onto his neck, under his collar, and as he does so Hugh tugs Paul’s trousers and underwear down.  As soon as Paul has kicked his pants away, Hugh pushes Paul down onto the sofa.  And then he kneels on the floor before him.  And it’s the look in his eyes, the burning, and his swollen lips, his mouth loosely open as if in awe – Paul feels it just looking at him there, on his knees.  In Hugh’s eyes, Paul is a regent.  To Hugh, Paul is a god. 

There’s a coffee table in front of the sofa, and Hugh is kneeling in front of it, and as if he can read Hugh’s mind, Paul props his feet up against it.  But then he sits up-

“Wait one second,” he says, reaching down to his feet.  “Socks.” 

“Socks?” Hugh echoes. 

“Can’t have sex in socks,” Paul replies, pulling the blue sock from his right foot. 

Hugh laughs a little.  “Fair enough.”  Still grinning, he takes the sock from Paul’s left foot, and then presses a soft kiss to his ankle.  And then his calf.  Paul rests his feet back on the coffee table as Hugh works his way up his leg, scrapes his teeth along Paul’s cellulite.  And once again, Paul can’t catch his breath.  One hand curls around the throw on the sofa beside him, the other moves to the top of Hugh’s head as he reaches Paul’s crotch. 

“Tell me what you want,” Hugh says, and his breath is hot and Paul is dripping. 

Paul can only whimper.

“You want this?” 

“Yes,” Paul says quickly, his fingers pressing into the back of Hugh’s head, almost pulling him in.  Hugh laughs lightly again, and Jesus Christ that is a gorgeous sound. 

Hugh wasn’t kidding – _tell me what you want, and I will do it_. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Paul moans as Hugh runs his tongue along Paul’s wet lips, but most of the word is lost as his breath hitches in his throat.  Hugh worships Paul’s cunt with all the fervour he’d been giving his mouth just moments ago and velvet ecstasy ripples through Paul.  Every breath catches Paul’s voice, miniscule sounds that urge Hugh on, his tongue moving inside Paul now, working his way up to suck Paul’s clit and Paul is trembling.  And then Hugh pulls away. 

“No,” Paul manages through his shallow panting, his hand still outstretched towards Hugh as he kneels up before him, “don’t stop.”  His hand is so tight around the throw he’s sure to rip a hole in it. 

“Hold on,” Hugh says, and he gets to his feet.

“What are you doing?”

The look Hugh gives him, and the low gravel of his voice – “I want to fuck you” – Paul almost comes then and there. 

Paul nods, and Hugh steps over his leg and heads towards the bathroom.  It must only be seconds before he returns, but they are the longest seconds of Paul’s life.  When he returns, Hugh’s already tearing open the condom.  He’s also taken his socks off, and Paul smiles, but he’s still so painfully close and he needs Hugh back on him _now_. 

So Paul sits up, tugging at Hugh’s trousers as he reaches the sofa again.  He’s hard and utterly beautiful, but Paul only has a moment to drink in the sight before Hugh is pushing him back again and settling between his legs.  For a moment, they lock eyes.  Paul is aching.

“You want this?” Hugh asks. 

“I want this,” Paul replies.  “I want you.”

And Hugh presses inside him.

“Oh _fuck_ , Paul,” Hugh breathes, and it’s like Paul’s throat closes over with the heat rippling through his whole body.  Hugh’s hand runs through Paul’s white-blond locks as he starts to thrust into him, and then he closes his hand around the hair at the nape of Paul’s neck and tugs, almost involuntarily, and that’s it.  Paul tenses around Hugh’s cock, his whole body trembling, waves of pleasure rushing through him as Hugh continues to fuck him harder and faster and moans in his ear. 

Hot pleasure is still coursing through him as the climax recedes.  Paul raises his head to kiss Hugh’s neck, and then he sucks his collarbone hard and Hugh goes still.  But oh god, the noise he makes as he comes inside Paul, a long, ecstatic moan, it’s gorgeous. 

And then Hugh relaxes on top of Paul, and for a moment they lie there, Hugh’s cock still inside him, and they’re both sticky with sweat and utterly content. 

“You’re staying for breakfast, right?” Hugh asks, and he’s still sort of panting. 

Paul turns his head and presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to Hugh’s lips.  “You want me to?” 

Hugh takes perhaps a little too long to respond, but he spends the meantime just staring into Paul’s eyes so for once Paul doesn’t think on it.  “Definitely.  You like omelettes?” 

At that, Paul sort of laughs, all breathy and blissful.  “I love omelettes,” he says. 

Hugh smiles.  Paul is certain at this point that Hugh’s smile is one of the most beautiful sights in the known universe.  And the unknown universe.  Yeah – Hugh’s smile is what beauty is. 

He drags himself away, however, and uses the bathroom and Hugh points him to the bedroom as he disappears into the bathroom himself. 

Unsurprisingly, Hugh’s bedroom is terrible.  It’s worse than the living room.  His bed is unmade, there are clothes on the floor and the chair and the less said about his desk the better.  Paul just stands there for a moment taking it in.  It’s a shame, he thinks, because it actually has the potential to be a lovely little room.  Simple, but lovely.  The walls and carpet are white, and there’s a black blind pulled down over what is presumably a big window on one wall.  And, shit, Hugh has black silk sheets.  Stunning.  Hugh needs someone to help him take care of this place. 

Paul shoves that thought out of his mind before it has a chance to attach and he makes his way over to Hugh’s double bed.  But he steps on a shirt – the shirt Hugh wore on their first date, actually – and he’s again distracted by the mess.  That’s when Hugh comes in. 

“Thought I’d find you tucked up in bed,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around Paul’s waist. 

“You live like a pig,” Paul replies. 

“I mean… I guess it’s a bit messy,” Hugh says, glancing around the room. 

“A bit messy?”  Paul turns his head to look at Hugh, who at this point has perched his chin on Paul’s shoulder.  “Hugh, it looks like a bomb went off in here.”

“You were dying to say that about the living room as well, weren’t you?”

“God, yes.” 

Hugh chuckles.  “Well, you can help me unmake the bed if you like.” 

“That line only works if the bed’s made,” Paul says, his voice sharp as ever.

But there is, Paul is sure, a trace of a smirk around Hugh’s lips.  “You gonna leave me for this?” 

For a moment Paul just gazes at Hugh.  He can’t really tell why, it might just be because of the dark, but Hugh’s pupils are dilated again.  “Not on your life,” Paul breathes. 

Then Hugh tugs at Paul’s shirt and Paul lets it slip from his shoulders so he’s standing now, like Hugh, totally bare.  Hugh starts kissing Paul’s shoulder, and he moves along to his neck to his jaw to his ear.  Paul turns and closes his mouth over Hugh’s.  It’s just a step back and then they’re tumbling down onto Hugh’s black silk sheets. 

This time it’s slower, and softer, and their breaths are still hot and Hugh moans like before and somehow Paul comes first again without all that much prompting.  They lie quietly after, tangled in the sheets, Hugh’s head on Paul’s chest.  It’s nothing like Paul thought it would be.  Oh no, this is so much better. 

“You are so beautiful,” Hugh murmurs. 

Paul’s fingers are running circles on Hugh’s back.  “I mean I’m not, but okay.” 

Hugh presses a kiss to Paul’s chest.  “You need me to prove how beautiful I think you are again?” 

“ _You_ are the beautiful one in this relationship.”  It’s out of Paul’s mouth before he’s really thought about it, but as soon as he hears what he’s said he stops breathing.  Crap, crap, _crap_ , that is not something they’ve talked about. 

“Relationship?” Hugh repeats.  He lifts his head and looks at Paul, and Paul can hardly bear to look at the expression on Hugh’s face.  But he forces himself to meet his eye, and okay Paul has no idea what Hugh’s thinking.  Shit. 

“I, um, I mean…” Paul stammers, but there’s nothing he can really say to fix this.  He’s ruined it.  Hugh thought this was a casual thing and now Paul’s gone and called it a relationship and Hugh’s going to ask him to leave and-

“I like the sound of that.” 

Paul blinks.  “Sorry?” 

“I mean, if you do,” Hugh continues, and is he blushing?  He’s blushing.  “Do you?  Want to make it official, as it were?” 

“You want to be my… partner?” Paul asks, his voice soft and quite breathy. 

“I do,” Hugh replies.  He looks like there’s something else on his lips, but he just swallows and closes his mouth. 

For some dazed reason, Paul can hardly speak.  “I want to be yours,” he whispers. 

And there it is again, that utterly gorgeous grin.  Hugh presses his mouth to Paul’s, and it’s barely a kiss because he’s smiling too much and Paul adores it.  Paul adores Hugh.  And now, and he can hardly believe it, Hugh really is his. 

They spend a little while longer lying together, talking about nothing much, and they drift off with their limbs entwined. 

And as he’s fading into sleep, the thought occurs to Paul: oh _shit_ , he’s falling in love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again for the prompt!! you can find the lovely gene on [tumblr](https://stellaviatoii.tumbl.com), [twitter](https://twitter.com/stellaviatorii) and [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaviatorii/pseuds/stellaviatorii)
> 
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> [support me through ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain)
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> [send me a prompt](http://godblessintheflesh.tumblr.com) \- I will also accept prompts through comments and messages here on AO3!


	3. Love is Not All: it is Not Meat nor Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul’s eyes were lingering on the mirror again. 
> 
> For a time, he’d been fine.  As they got dressed, his gaze would mostly fix on Hugh, on the curve of his back as he bent for his pants, on his miraculous hands as he adjusted his collar.  On his lips.  On his smile.  Sure, Paul would look in the mirror as he combed some product through his hair or adjusted his badge, but it was just part of the morning routine.  He didn’t pause to stare at his stomach, or his hips, or his thighs, or his arms, or his jawline.  He didn’t turn, and suck in, and consider the space he filled.  No; Paul brushed his teeth with his partner and then went off to work. 
> 
> Except now, the mirror was pulling focus again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from anon on tumblr - "In your fic '[I Cried to Dream Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13999143/chapters/32236137)' you mention that Paul has a mild eating disorder - could you write more about that? <3" 
> 
> Apparently I can write a _lot_ more about that! I don't know if you were expecting a fairly complete history of Paul and his disordered eating but here we are.
> 
> Triggers for this ficlet: disordered eating, mild eating disorder, death of a parent, some mentions of medical procedures. There's nothing graphic in any of this. 
> 
> This ficlet also makes references to events in the comic so I guess spoilers for the comic? Though if you haven't read it then those parts might just not make perfect sense. 
> 
> Some original characters are also here because I love the Stamily (Stamets family) and I wanted to include them in my telling of Paul's life. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy the ficlet!!
> 
> Ficlet title from _Sonnet XXX_ by Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

Paul was twenty-one when it started. 

There had been days before, of course.  He was always on the larger end of the scale, and whilst the bullies that come with schoolyards had other easier targets, whilst they did for the post part ignore Paul, his weight was always in the back of his mind.  There were days when this hefty discomfort, this sickening of his own skin was too much.  He’d eat half-sized portions and walk everywhere instead of taking transport.  He went for a few weeks only eating one meal a day.  The strangest sensation – one Paul never truly shook, one Paul knew was utterly terrible – was the stirring in his chest after the first time he went a full day without eating.  He was fourteen.  His moms had entrusted him at home alone for the evening, the twins were at a sleepover, and dinner was left for him in the kitchen.  He’d avoided lunch at school and managed to rush out the door that morning assuring his moms that yes he had definitely had some toast.  He threw his dinner out without so much as a mouthful.  The worst of it, though, was the pride that stirred in his chest.  He went a _full day_ without eating.  And surely that meant he could do it again?  Luckily – and Paul knew that yes it was lucky, he was very lucky – this behaviour never stuck.  It never really made a dent, and Paul continued to live and to eat as he always had for the remainder of his teenage years.

But when Paul was twenty-one, his mama got sick. 

On the day she first collapsed in their kitchen, Paul just stood in the doorway.  It was summer, and Paul was home from college, and he just stood in the doorway as his mom ran over to her wife and dropped to her knees, checking for a pulse, for how she was breathing with horror scrawled over her face.  His ears were ringing as his brother called for an ambulance.  He watched his sister try to calm his mom as, between them, mama lay unconscious, a deep purple bruise blooming over her forehead where she’d hit the counter.  He couldn’t move.  He didn’t help. 

After what was somehow both an eternity and barely a second, Paul found himself bundled into the car by Mags as Mark got into the driver’s seat and their mom followed the paramedics into the ambulance.  He didn’t even feel the car move but then they were at the hospital and Mark was probably asking about their mama, but Paul couldn’t hear.  Mags was trying to talk to him, but he couldn’t focus enough to see what she was saying.  His mom found them, and she was crying, and then Paul had his arms around her but his world was still a blur. 

The next twenty-four hours passed without a glimpse of natural sunlight.  When the doctors came, they spoke in tongues.  Mark and Mags slipped into their shorthand version of ASL and Paul stopped being able to follow anything they said.  Hannah just sat still and quiet.  And for the first time in his life, Paul’s stomach twisted into knots so tight he couldn’t face the thought of food. 

The weeks past, and Paul couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t feel sick.  Hannah was so tense she could barely speak to him without snapping.  She’d always been closer with the twins for some reason, and Mags could always get her to calm down, and Mark could get her to open up.  His baby siblings, these kids who were still actually in high school, were better at helping their mom than he was.

Eventually, after the longest summer of Paul’s life, the semester started again.  His mama was still in a coma, but Paul knew he had to leave.  She hadn’t deteriorated, so she probably wouldn’t any time soon, and if he left then maybe the household would learn to breathe again.  When he left, Paul was sure he was leaving to a certain relief. 

A strange thing happened, however, when he got back to school: people commented on his weight loss.  His classmates, even one rather tactless professor, all looked at him differently and told him about how _great_ he was looking.  How much _healthier_ he must be.  Someone said _well done_. 

And something in Paul went “oh hey, that’s the silver lining.” 

Of course, Paul was still worried about his mama.  He video-chatted with Mark and Mags every day after they’d finished school, always whilst Hannah was still at work, and they talked about any changes in Fiona’s condition, about how Hannah was coping, but also about school work and TV shows and dumb internet stuff – the sort of crap kids talk about.  It was nice to see his siblings and forget all the shit that was happening.  They laughed.  It was easy.  But on one call, Mags suddenly stopped.  Her brow furrowed. 

“Stand up,” she said. 

Paul blinked.  “What?” 

“Stand up for a second.  Take a couple of steps back so we can see you properly.” 

Mark turned to his sister.  “Why?” 

“Yeah – why?” Paul repeated.

“Just do it.” 

So Paul stood up and took a couple of steps back. 

“Turn around,” Mags said. 

Paul did. 

And Mags just stared.  Paul sat down again without asking if it was okay with his baby sister, and then he noticed that Mark had the exact same expression on his face as Mags’ did on hers. 

“What’s going on?” Paul asked. 

When Mags spoke again, her hands were slow and deliberate.  “How much weight have you lost?” 

 _Oh shit_.Paul said nothing.

“Have you been eating anything?” 

Paul tried a laugh – “Of course I have.” 

Mark’s eyebrows shot up.  “You don’t look it.” 

“Okay, so I’ve dropped a few pounds.”

“A few?” echoed Mags, her eyes wide, her movements sharp. 

“I’ve been worried about mama!”

“You’ve still got to eat, Paul!”

“I know, I… what?” 

Mark’s head had flicked up, and Paul knew he was looking towards the door.  His gaze moved back to the screen.  “Mom’s home.” 

Mags turned to him.  “Can you get her to come in here?” 

“Oh no, I am not talking to mom,” Paul said. 

Mark complied with his sister.  “Mom, can you come up here a minute?” he yelled, in spoken English. 

Paul disconnected the call.  They rang back, of course, but he didn’t answer.  It wasn’t about the food thing though, not really – Paul had loads of reasons for not wanting to talk to his mom.  Besides, he had a bunch of lab notes to write up, and an essay due next week.  He was just busy.

The fact that scales had found a place in Paul’s bathroom didn’t come into it. 

News of Fiona’s condition came slowly, and when it came it was rarely good.  A month after the initial incident, her doctors suggested a transfusion might help.  But something went wrong, and Fiona reacted badly – Mark said they had to drain her lungs.  Paul’s mind went fuzzy after that and he didn’t hear any other explanation.  But he found himself sitting on the kitchen floor at three in the morning having eaten basically everything in the fridge.  He went to bed stiff, his stomach fit to burst, and he spent an hour sobbing because he’d ruined everything now.  He’d failed.  He had nothing.  He didn’t tell anyone about this, of course, about what he’d done or about his wretchedness.  How could he?  It didn’t even make sense to him.  But he managed to avoid eating until a classmate dragged him to lunch two days later.  Paul had a salad and promised himself he’d only eat half of it.  He ate the whole thing, and some of the nachos another classmate had bought ‘to share’, and then they all got ice creams and Paul wasn’t allowed to not have an ice cream and when he got back to his room he screamed into his pillow and swore he’d fast for two whole days.  He drank some water, and tried to get on with his work. 

It went on much like this for the duration of Fiona’s illness.  Paul would watch what he ate and stand on his scale and sometimes it would be all good and sometimes it would be terrible.  He’d go for a few days eating everything, and then for a few he’d eat nothing at all.  There were weeks when he actually got back into more normal – whatever that was – eating habits; he’d reprimand himself for thinking the way he did, for nearly developing an actual eating disorder.  He could have caused himself and his family real problems.  And then a test would go badly, or he’d catch himself in the mirror, or there’d be a problem with the most recent treatment and Paul would slip back.  People kept making comments, people he hadn’t seen in a while would say _Paul, have you lost weight?_ Or, and somehow both worse and better, _wow – you’ve lost weight_.  Whatever they said, Paul would insist it was nothing, he hadn’t noticed, he hadn’t been trying to.  He loved and loathed the comments, like he loved and loathed the scales in his bathroom. 

Mags would bring is up occasionally. 

“What have you eaten today?” 

Paul would swallow.  “I had breakfast.” 

“What did you have?” 

“Tea.” 

“That’s not breakfast.  Eat something.  Now.  I want to see you eat something.” 

Something in Paul hated his sister for this.  But then the more logical side of his brain, the side that looked on in horror as he starved himself, that sighed with relief when he ate like a human being should, told him it was because she loved him and she knew he wasn’t being good to himself.  That he should listen to her whole-heartedly.  Sometimes he did, and Mags would unknowingly have prompted him into a week of eating just fine.  Sometimes he didn’t, and the banana or sandwich or whatever he’d eaten to make Mags happy would weigh heavy on his stomach and he’d restrict himself more harshly than usual for a while.  Either way, life went on. 

Until it didn’t. 

Fiona Stamets died in the spring.  Paul was in a lab assessment at the time.  Mags called him after, and she had to be using her hearing aids for that so Paul knew what had happened before he picked up the phone.

“Paul,” Mags voice sounded like it had been scraped over gravel.  “Paul, it’s…”  She coughed, and Paul could picture her face, strained, as always more eloquent than her voice had ever been. 

“Mama’s gone, isn’t she?”  Paul was quiet, but not emotional. 

He could almost hear Mags nodding.  “Yeah.  She’s gone.  She had a seizure which may have been linked to the infection?  Anyway, that was this morning and when it stopped it… she, uh… it was just a gradual dropping off, as it were.  It was peaceful, in the end.” 

Paul took a deep breath.  “Okay.  Thanks for letting me know.” 

And thus Paul learnt of his mama’s death in the bright, cold March sunshine on the grass outside the lab building.  And for a while, Paul sat on the grass and watched the world go by.  He watched students move between lecture halls and libraries.  Watched professors through their office windows piecing meaning together in poorly-constructed essays and taking breaks, watching videos on their tablets, eating junk they had stowed away in their desks.  Watched a fat bumblebee pause for a moment on the grass before she continued her hunt for the best place to build a new hive.  Paul wasn’t sure why he knew about the life cycles of bumblebees, why he recognised what this queen bee was doing, but the knowledge was there alongside facts about Harvey Milk and how to make the perfect scrambled eggs.  For a while, Paul sat on the grass and he took in the world where his mama did not live.  He looked up at the empty sky, tried to take in this expanse of universe where his mama did not live.  An impossible task, in truth, but he took deep breaths in the cold spring air, and when he got up he just knew that there were arrangements to be made.

He got a flight back home for the funeral.  His mama was buried in a simple wooden casket, and her grave was near a yew tree.  At the service, Hannah gave a stilted eulogy and Margaret recited a poem and Paul sang whilst Mark played the piano.  It was awful and Paul went back to school before the week was out. 

But something finally lifted. 

Paul met Julian Straal a couple of weeks later at a lecture given by a Kelpian astromycologist who was doing a lecture tour on his findings to various universities and other higher-education facilities across the galaxy.  Paul found that he and Julien had a shared awe of the subject, and of their own work.  They talked about the work they’d been doing, and Julien told Paul about this amazing facility on Deneva where he was planning on continuing his studies.  He could get his doctorate there, and wanted to focus his research on various fungal varieties – things that were all theory on earth, but on Deneva could become practice.  It was perfect.  It was perfect for Paul. 

It was hard saying goodbye to the twins, but he promised he’d visit earth, and they could come to Deneva, and they’d video-chat in the meantime.  Saying goodbye to Hannah was quicker.  It was colder.  Two months after first meeting Julien, Paul got on the shuttle fairly sure that he wouldn’t be missed. 

But the thing was: it was a new start.  And Straal was a no bullshit kind of person and got Paul to eat regular meals with him and they studied together and everything got back on track.  Paul put weight back on, and sometimes he hated it, but he was the only one saying he looked bad.  And when Mags called, well, she beamed, and she said how _great_ he was looking.  How much _healthier_.  Paul loved it, and he loathed it. 

It wasn’t all fine and perfect from then on, of course.  During one particularly stressful stretch in writing his dissertation, Paul started counting again, started wrapping his finger and thumb around his wrist, started staring too long at the mirror.  But it passed, and he called himself stupid for letting it happen again. 

It wasn’t stupid, Straal told him, but he had to be careful, and he had to fight it when it happened.  And he had people who would help him fight it.  He did, he knew, but Paul being Paul he was unlikely to ask for help.  Straal knew this, of course, so he kept an eye on Paul and things were, for the most part, fine. 

Years passed, as they are in the habit of doing, and Paul was back on earth for Mags’ wedding.  Itetaa was an Andorian who had left her home planet with her family as a little girl and had actually been raised in Honfluer.  She met Mags at Paris Fashion Week.  Mags had heard her fabrics were being used in some high-fashion circles – ridiculous, considering she designed fabrics and clothing for long term, practical use – and so she went to see what applications they had met in the world of haut couture.  She nearly screamed when Itetaa had the bizarre ball gown drenched in oil and set on fire on the runway.  On confronting her later, Itetaa said something about holding up the mirror to the fragility of mankind.  Paul had heard the story too many times to count, both as it was unfolding and as Mags, or Itetaa, or both of them told it later.  Anyway, a couple of years passed since this turbulent first encounter and Paul found himself sitting in his childhood Synagogue watching his baby sister getting married. 

And because it was their childhood Synagogue, he slept in his childhood bed, in the house he’d grown up in for the length of his visit.  Hannah lived there still, but Mark had moved back in ‘temporarily’ (though that could mean anything with Mark) so at least he was there to break the ice.  To talk to.  To ease his guilt when he left a room when Hannah came in.  So yes, it was a little strained. 

Worse, though, was the wardrobe.  He’d bought a bunch of clothes at college, clothes he’d left behind when he was preparing to leave for Deneva, when he was eating like he had done before his mama’s illness.  He couldn’t help taking them out, looking at them, holding them up in the mirror.  These were clothes two sizes too small.  Clothes that had, once, been a little bit baggy. 

He shouldn’t try anything on.  He shouldn’t take some of this stuff back with him just in case he fit them again.  He shouldn’t weigh himself. 

But he did, and he skipped dinner, and when he woke up the gnawing in his stomach was as comfortable and as familiar as the view of the street from his bedroom window.  He knew he shouldn’t enjoy the hunger.  And yet it made him smile. 

It was Mark who noticed that Paul had barely touched his food at the reception.  It was Mark who found Paul in his room the following day, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a tablet, gazing at pictures of boys who were thinner than Paul had ever been.  Not that Mark saw what was on the tablet, of course – Paul locked it as soon as Mark knocked on the door.  He might have had an idea, though.  Paul never asked if he suspected.  He didn’t really want to know. 

“I think we should give these old clothes of yours away,” Mark said, perfectly succinct. 

“What?” 

“You’re never going to wear them again.” 

“You don’t know that,” Paul snapped.  It was too defensive, he knew it, but his heart rate was rising. 

Mark, however, was unmoved.  “You shouldn’t want to wear them again.”

“We are not having this conversation,” said Paul, picking up the tablet again and flicking to the _hebeloma cittera_ updates from Straal. 

“Fine,” Mark shrugged.  “Mags wanted to know if you’d like to join her and Itetaa for lunch.” 

Paul scrolled down to some photos of _pleurotus lelas_ and made a note to suggest upping the dosage on her treatments – she didn’t look to be responding as he’d hoped.  “I’m not hungry, thanks.” 

“Oh come on,” Mark scoffed, and though he wasn’t looking, Paul knew his brother was rolling his eyes.  “This isn’t about the food, this is about getting to know your sister-in-law.” 

“Are you going?” Paul asked, eyes flicking over lines of equations and not absorbing anything. 

Mark shifted.  “I have work, actually.”

“What about getting to know your sister-in-law?” 

“I live here, Paul.  I know her.”

Paul looked up.  “And she’s been on like every video-chat I’ve had with Mags for the past six months.  I know her too.” 

“Not the same as in-person, actual conversation; you don’t get the same… effect.” 

“You’re floundering.” 

“I am not- go to lunch!”

Mark had his arms crossed, and he was glaring at Paul with rather unsteady determination.  The logical side of Paul’s brain clocked in and reminded him that, ineloquent as he was, Mark was right.  Paul sighed.  “Fine.” 

And lunch was bearable and Itetaa was lovely and Paul really should have expected his wardrobe to have been emptied of his college clothes by the time he got back.  When asked, Mark made a poor imitation of innocence, but Paul didn’t press it.  Best interests at heart and all that.  Besides, he’d already packed what he wanted to take with him. 

He left at the same time as Mags and Itetaa left for their honeymoon.  As it was, Deneva and work and Straal had Paul back in his regular eating habits soon enough.  There were times he gazed almost longingly at the stuff he’d brought back from Earth, but he didn’t dwell on it.  _Pleurotus_ was demanding too much of his attention. 

Life went on.  Work went on.  They got Stella.  He met Hugh.  There were weeks when he’d fall back again, but it never stuck.  And Paul knew he was lucky.

But, as is the way with such things, the problem never truly died.  And as Hugh was somewhat of a fixture in Paul’s life now, he had to find out somehow. 

It was after Charlie died.  After Charlie died, Paul plunged himself into his work and didn’t eat until after he worked out what went wrong, after he’d compensated for the distortion, after he’d stepped into the chamber not really caring whether it worked or not.  Having survived the experiment, Hugh felt he was quite within his rights to chew Paul out for being so reckless.  They were video-chatting and Hugh was talking a lot and quite loudly actually, and Paul’s head started spinning, and the last thing he heard was Hugh’s voice, frantic, calling his name as he blacked out. 

Hugh actually came to Deneva.  He ran every test he could think of, but more insightful was the conversation they had at two in the morning with Paul’s voice cracking and their hands clasped together so tight it was almost painful.  Leaving Paul was never easy, but that goodbye was the hardest they’d had to endure.  Paul rolled his eyes at Hugh running back to Starfleet, as if it would make things easier, and Hugh laughed like it did. 

“Hey,” Hugh began, as the automated voice made yet another boarding announcement for Hugh’s shuttle.  “Let’s have dinner together tonight.” 

“Sounds perfect,” Paul replied.  “Except for the fact you’re about to leave me again.” 

“I’ll eat in my quarters while we’re video-chatting,” Hugh said, only shaking his head at Paul a little bit.  “And you can have whatever you’re having at the same time.  It’ll be great.”

“What about time zones?” Paul sighed.  “We’ve had this conversation before.” 

“We’ll make it your dinner time.” 

Paul narrowed his eyes.  “This is just so you can watch me eat, isn’t it?” 

Hugh paused, just for a moment.  “Yes.”   

“I don’t need babysitting, Hugh,” Paul said, and his tone was almost snappish. 

“Humour me,” Hugh said, and maybe it was the look in his eyes, or maybe it was just because he was leaving, but Paul conceded. 

The announcement came – the final call. 

“I have to go.”  Hugh’s voice was suddenly quiet.  He didn’t move. 

Paul only nodded. 

“I’ll call you as soon as I get back,” Hugh breathed, his hand moving to Paul’s face. 

Swallowing was suddenly a lot harder.  “You better.” 

Hugh moved closer and pressed a kiss to Paul’s lips, and it was far too brief.  “I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

And then Hugh was gone. 

Video-chatting over dinner became a regular thing, after that.  Hugh insisted on actually seeing Paul eat something at least once a day, but he did actually take his meals in his quarters and had the chat up when he did, he watched Paul work as he ate his lunch, so it was technically mutual.  And it was nice, actually, though Paul wouldn’t admit it.  Meals were easier with Hugh there. 

Nine months later Starfleet had its nose back in their research.  And Straal was being an idiot.  And Hugh listened to Paul’s ranting and tried to keep the smile off his face because Paul was ranting over a bowl of chili.  This wouldn’t be the end of Paul’s world. 

In fact, it was only the beginning. 

On _Discovery_ , they ate their meals together.  Hugh was able to press kisses to Paul’s stomach and his hips and his thighs and his arms and his jawline.  Hugh could notice when Paul’s gaze was lingering in the mirror and do his best to pull him back.  For months, everything was great. 

And then Paul started making jumps.  And it was terrifying.  He allowed himself to stand in that chamber and get himself stabbed every time Lorca gave the order, and he was bouncing off the walls and his snark had melted away.  Everyone laughed about it.  Everyone loved the change.  He was being nice.  He was relaxed.  But he’d started leaving his shirt kind of undone and he was having to work through lunch oh and dinner as well and Hugh could have sworn the walls of sickbay were closing in.  He stayed up three nights in a row designing the implants.  Paul made some weak joke about Hugh not taking care of himself and laughed for a full five minutes and Hugh watched with his stomach in knots.  Once the implants were fitted, Hugh slept a little better.  He didn’t have to be standing by ready to heal Paul every time _Discovery_ jumped.  But Paul was still changed. 

Hugh stepped out of the shower one morning to find Paul standing in his underwear, staring at the mirror.  He’d just put his underwear on when Hugh got in the shower – had Paul been standing there this whole time?

“Computer,” said Hugh, “cancel mirror.” 

Paul’s head flicked to Hugh.  His brow furrowed, but he said nothing. 

“I thought you were getting dressed,” Hugh sighed, moving over to the replicator. 

“I was.  I just…”  Paul trailed off.  He’d been doing that a lot recently.  His words hung in the air, any thought behind them dissipated.  Paul hummed a little, as if this was a reasonable conclusion to the non-thought. 

Hugh directed his attention to the replicator.  “Oatmeal with blueberries and banana,” he said. 

“Sorry?” Paul replied, blinking at Hugh.

The replicator buzzed, and Hugh took the oatmeal and walked over to Paul, who was now just staring at his uniform. 

“You’re eating this,” Hugh said.  It wasn’t anything like a question. 

Paul smiled a little.  “Is that an order, sir?” 

“Yes,” replied Hugh, not a trace of humour in his voice. 

Paul’s brow furrowed.  “I’m not really hungry right now, Hugh.” 

“I don’t care.” 

Paul straightened up, and the effect would have been greater if he’d been dressed, or if he’d been able to focus his gaze properly, or if he’d not just been staring in the mirror for fifteen minutes.  Perhaps to someone else, in different circumstances, the stance would be enough to make them back down.  But as it was, the effect was this: acid anxiety rose in Hugh’s chest and he held the bowl out to his love. 

“You are meant to care about me, you know,” Paul said, his voice cold. 

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing this,” Hugh replied. 

Paul sneered.  “You just said you don’t care.” 

“That you’re not hungry.  Which I doubt is true.  Of course I care about you.”  Hugh was desperately trying to keep his voice steady.  He was in his uniform.  He was Paul’s doctor.  And he loved him so much it hurt. 

Paul just crossed his arms. 

“Do you care about me?” Hugh hadn’t really wanted to ask, not now, but the question had been bubbling in the back of his mind for too long and it slipped out before he could stop it. 

“Do you even need to ask that?” 

“Yes.” 

Paul’s arms dropped.  For a moment, for the briefest, most wonderful moment, he looked like himself again.  “Hugh…”

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  But I’ve told you how much you taking care of yourself means to me, and you’re not taking care of yourself.  So please, if you love me, will you act like it?”

It was harsher than he meant, he knew, but sometimes that’s what it took to get through.  Or so Hugh told himself.  And he breathed a sigh of relief as Paul took the oatmeal from his hands. 

“I do love you, Hugh.” 

“And I love you too.  Now eat your breakfast.” 

“Where’s yours?” 

“I’m just going to get it.” 

As Hugh turned towards the replicator, he counted his breaths.  This was never easy.  Convincing Paul not to skip meals, watching his shirts get baggier, enduring the anxiety coursing through him as Paul put up his defences.  And now with whatever the network was doing to him as well…

It would be okay.  They would get through this, like they’d got through it before.  Paul would get through this, like he’d got through it before. 

Hugh ordered toast, and he ate breakfast with his partner, and they set out for work. 

“Meet at one for lunch?” Hugh asked, his fingers still hooked around Paul’s though Paul had started to pull away. 

Paul swallowed.  There was what he wanted to say, what he wanted to scream, but then there was the right answer.  To Hugh’s relief, Paul managed a smile.  “Sounds great.” 

And with that, they went their separate ways to work.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [more information on eating disorders](https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk/types/anorexia) \- this link leads to info on anorexia, but the website ([beateatingdisorders.org.uk](https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk)) has info on multiple eating disorders, and also info on getting help if you or a friend have been struggling. this includes multiple helplines for those in the uk. if you're not in the uk then there are other websites, helplines, etc available that you can find with a quick google search (I'd include links to all the ones I found but I'd run out of characters for these notes). if you are affected by one or more eating disorders then please, please do what you can to get help and to help yourself. you deserve to recover. 
> 
>  
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> [support me with ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain)
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	4. Is it Possible Disdain Should Die?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from [@sad-is-happy-for-deep-people](https://sad-is-happy-for-deep-people.tumblr.com) on tumblr from [this prompts list](https://godblessintheflesh.tumblr.com/post/172072108847) \- “we argued so much during a class discussion that we both got kicked out and we’re still arguing outside of class”. Thanks Johnda you angel!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was an idiot and didn't read the prompt properly so I completely forgot the class discussion part. I hope you enjoy this anyway!
> 
> Back to my main man Shakespeare: this ficlet title comes from _Much Ado About Nothing_

“You clearly have no idea what you are talking about!”

“I’m informed enough to know where I stand.” 

“So you admit that I know more about this than you do?”

“Only because you’re such an idiot that you think it’s worth looking into!”

“But I have more knowledge about this than you do!  That is undeniable!  Thus, my point has more factual backing, and is therefore superior.” 

“You can’t just dismiss everything I have to say like that-”

“You admitted that you’re uninformed!”

“Not _un_ informed!  I’m informed!”

“How?  You don’t know any contextual information-”

“I don’t need context!  I have ears; that’s enough to know you are wrong.” 

At that moment, the classroom door opened again.  Mr Lorca’s face was lined with barely-contained rage – as it often was when he was facing Paul Stamets and Hugh Culber. 

“If you two don’t shut up, you’ll find yourselves in Cornwell’s office,” Lorca snapped, his gaze flicking between the two boys.  “Do I make myself clear?” 

“Yes, Mr Lorca,” they replied simultaneously, both returning his steely gaze.  If Lorca was aware of the contempt in their eyes, he ignored it.  The door closed again. 

For a moment, there was quiet.  It was the exact same quiet that had fallen when they had first been ejected into the hallway by their physics teacher, who had once again grown tired of their bickering.  A quiet that would not last. 

“I’m just saying that if you learnt the socio-political context surrounding these operas, you’d appreciate them a lot more,” Hugh said, and his voice was actually at a reasonable level, for the moment, at least. 

“Okay, okay, I might,” Paul began.

Hugh cut in: “Thank you!”   

“I’m not finished,” Paul snapped, glaring at Hugh.  “I might appreciate the story and structure and whatever in context.  I can appreciate the polyphony and the skill of the musicians and the power of it all and whatever.  I can also appreciate Stalin as a military leader.” 

“What- what?” Hugh spluttered, and his voice was rising again.  “Why Stalin, Paul?” 

“Because you yelled at me when I mentioned Hitler’s speech-writing prowess!”

“Stop bringing Hitler into this!”

The door opened.

“Right, that’s it!” Lorca yelled, his voice cutting off the both of them.  “Cornwell’s office.  Now.” 

Hugh and Paul resigned themselves to the walk. 

“And don’t you roll your eyes at me, Stamets!” Lorca shouted after them.

“I fucking hate Lorca,” Paul said as they rounded the corner. 

Hugh smirked.  “Now that we can agree on.”

* * *

 

As they sat outside Cornwell’s office, Hugh made the mistake of opening his mouth again. 

“I just think opera can be so brilliant, it’s a shame you dismiss it.” 

“Oh come _on_ Hugh!  You know I like opera music.  I like _La Boehme_ , and-”

“I like _La Boehme_.”

“Yeah, but you also like Wagner.”  Paul’s voice was dripping in contempt. 

“You two here again?”  The voice was curt, but there was a certain amused warmth behind it.  Hugh and Paul looked up instantly. 

Ms Georgiou, vice principal and music teacher, looked down at them with her eyebrows raised.  “What is it this time?” 

“What do you think of Wagner, Ms Georgiou?” Hugh asked. 

She paused for a moment, apparently deliberating her response.  “I can appreciate Wagner,” she said at length.  “Anyway, I’ll see you in fifth period.  Try not to get sent here again before then.”  And she disappeared into her office. 

Both Hugh and Paul had the same smug expression as they turned back to each other. 

“See?” Hugh said pointedly. 

“Yeah, I see that she doesn’t like Wagner.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding?  She just said she appreciates Wagner.” 

“She said she _can_ appreciate.  And she said _appreciate_.  She can _appreciate_ the composition and all, but she clearly doesn’t enjoy listening to it.” 

“She so does!”

“No one enjoys listening to Wagner, Hugh, it sounds shit.” 

Hugh had just opened his mouth to respond when the door to the principal’s office opened. 

“Stamets, Culber, come in.”  Dr Cornwell already sounded exasperated with the pair of them. 

As Hugh and Paul made their way into the office, Cornwell moved back to her desk.  “Sit,” she ordered.  They did so.  “Who sent you?” 

“Mr Lorca,” Hugh replied. 

“Arguing in class again?”

“Yes,” Paul said. 

Cornwell sighed.  “This has to stop, boys.  Can you tell me why it happens?  Do you sit near each other?” 

Hugh nodded.  “We sit next to each other.”

“Did Mr Lorca assign seats?” 

“No.” 

“Can’t one of you move, then?”

Paul took this one – “The class is full.” 

“Swap with someone then.  I don’t understand; if you don’t like each other then why did you sit together?” 

Silence fell over the room as both boys attempted to muster some response.  Hugh opened his mouth, but closed it again without making a sound, and Paul just put his hand to his chin, fingers over his lips, as if in thought.  In truth, he was desperately trying to keep a straight face – now, he knew, would be a really bad time to laugh.  

Whether or not Cornwell noticed this was moot.  She was tired of the pair of them.  “Look, you two either have to learn to get along, or separate yourselves.  You can’t keep disrupting Mr Lorca’s class like this.  If you do, I’m going to have to take further disciplinary action.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” they both replied. 

The bell rang. 

“What do you have now?” Cornwell asked. 

“German,” said Paul.

“Spanish,” said Hugh. 

Cornwell sighed, and both boys noticed the relief there.  “Alright.  Go to class, and next class you have together you sort this out between you.  I don’t want to see you in here again, okay?” 

“Okay,” Paul nodded. 

“Thank you, Dr Cornwell,” Hugh said. 

“Dismissed.”

Together, Hugh and Paul walked out of their principal’s office.  The little hallway outside the office was quiet.  Beyond the door at the end, they could hear the steady footfall and clamouring voices of the rest of the school. 

“She really thinks we don’t get along,” Paul said, finally allowing the smirk to break out over his face. 

“I can see why,” Hugh laughed.  “Most of the teachers probably think the same.” 

“We’re terrible.” 

“Awful.” 

As they reached the door, Paul stopped and turned to Hugh.  “See you at lunch?” 

Hugh glanced down the corridor to check they were, indeed, alone.  Very briefly, he pressed a kiss to Paul’s lips.  “See you then, babe.” 

And then they broke out into the crowded hallway, and went off to their separate classes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again for the prompt!! you can find the lovely johnda on [tumblr](https://sad-is-happy-for-deep-people.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/johndaeliza)
> 
> [send me a prompt](https://ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain>support%20me%20through%20ko-fi</a>%0A%0A<a%20href=) \- I will also accept prompts through comments and messages here on AO3!


	5. A Thousand Sweet Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from anon on tumblr - 'you’re the casting director and i reeeeeaaalllly want a part in this show so i tried seducing you but i’m very bad at seduction'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, casting director!Paul and actor!Hugh. Hugh is auditioning for Angel in _Rent_! 
> 
> The song, if you don't know it, is "I'll Cover You" from _Rent_ and you can find a lovely version of it from a Broadway recording [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_bwZGp0j8FI). The title for this ficlet is a line from the song!

“Have you got any questions for us?” the blond asks.

_Yes – can I please start again?  Listen; I know that was absolutely awful, but if you’d just give me a chance I know I’d be perfect for Angel._

Hugh forces his mouth into a smile and grapples for a more suitable question.  “Should I expect to hear from you either way?” he asks. 

“Yes; your agent will be informed as soon as we’ve made our decision,” the redhead replies, with what seems to be a genuine smile on her face.  Wow, a casting director who likes her job. 

The blond doesn’t even raise his eyes from the desk.  “Anything else?” 

_Just let me sing again.  Please._

“Not that I can think of,” Hugh says. 

“Great.” 

The woman shoots a rather sharp glare at her colleague and stands up.  Hugh realises that this is his cue, and he gets to his feet.  “Well,” she says, “if you think of anything else, Hugh, don’t hesitate to drop us an email.”

The blond probably didn’t think Hugh would notice his eye-roll.  Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t care.  Perhaps he wanted Hugh to notice it, wanted it to be abundantly clear that Hugh is not going to get this role.  Whatever he’s thinking, Hugh can’t help but feel rather prickly towards him – however bad his audition had been, there’s no need for rudeness.  Not that anyone in this industry worried about little things like being polite, of course.

Hugh still does.  And there’s never any harm in leaving a good impression.  “Thank you,” he says, and he’s desperately fishing around in his brain now for their names.  Names are abundantly important in this industry, why has Hugh got to be so awful with them?  “And thank you for meeting with me.  I look forward to hearing from you…”  Nope, the names are gone.  He trails off, vaguely hoping that he had actually sounded like he’d finished his sentence. 

From the pause that follows, he knows he didn’t. 

“It was lovely meeting with you,” the redhead says quickly, and she’s tugging on one of her curls.  “Have a nice day.” 

“You too.” 

As the audition room door closes behind him, Hugh sighs.  One day, he’ll get one of these right. 

* * *

 

Surely the sun is too harsh for April?  Hugh sighs as he walks the familiar sidewalks of Manhattan, squinting against the frankly ridiculous amounts of sunlight reflecting off the windows on the building across the street.  In spite of the sun, evidence of last night’s storm lingers in the gutters, in the pools of murky water swilling over the blocked drains.  Still, on some level it’s nice to feel the sun on his face.  There’s no use feeling sorry for himself, there’s no use moping about one bad audition.  One more bad audition.

There’s a rather nice looking café on the corner.  A few feet from the door they have a chalkboard declaring to the world that they have ice cream inside!  Hugh has been good; avoiding dairy for the past twenty four hours, doing his exercises, making sure his voice is in perfect shape.  And then he goes and fucks up the song anyway.  And the audition is over now so there really would be no harm in getting an ice cream…

No, that’s a stupid idea.  Manhattan prices are ridiculous and he really needs to save every penny if he’s going to make rent, given he’s not going to be playing Angel.  The irony isn’t lost on him.  He walks past the café and crosses the road. 

Sylvia.  The casting director lady’s name was Sylvia.  And the guy?  Fuck the guy.  He doesn’t need to know either of them anymore, anyway.

Okay, so, he’ll get home, get changed, and go for a run.  Yeah, running is a good idea.  He can clear his head, sweat the bad audition away, maybe pass out from heat exhaustion, or general exhaustion…

For once, actually, Hugh really doesn’t feel like running.

But never mind that; once he gets out there it’ll be great, he’ll be glad he did it-

It’s at this moment that a taxi zooms past, and Hugh finds himself utterly drenched from the water pooling by the drain.  For a moment he sputters, glancing down at himself.  His white shirt and pale blue skirt are not only soaked, but splattered with grey muck from whatever was swilling around on the street.  Swallowing his indignation, Hugh turns around and crosses the street once again.  He deserves that fucking ice cream. 

* * *

 

It’s not particularly busy – this isn’t exactly a tourist spot as areas of Manhattan go – but there are enough people in the little café that Hugh feels comfortably forgotten by the world outside.  There’s a case of ice cream on one side of the café bar, the other side being the usual assortment of cakes and paninis.  The person behind the counter takes a step forwards, and Hugh flashes a smile.

“Could I get one scoop of vanilla, please?” he asks. 

“Cone or cup?” comes the doleful reply, and they sound even more bored than the blond casting director did earlier – an impressive feat. 

“Cone, please,” Hugh says. 

Without another word, the spotty-faced teen begins to scrape up some vanilla.  Audition anxiety is still bubbling in his stomach, so as he reaches for his wallet Hugh starts humming a little of one of his favourite arias.  Verdi always helps relax his frazzled nerves.

“Excuse me,” comes a familiar voice from behind him. 

Oh great, looks like God’s not done pissing on him today. 

Hugh turns around.  As his eyes fall on the blond casting director, the name pops back into his head.  “Hello.  Paul, was it?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Paul says.  “I had to listen to you sing for two whole minutes in there, so if you could refrain from forcing me to endure more, I’d appreciate it.” 

_Bitch._

“Look, I know I kinda messed up in there,” Hugh begins, but he’s swiftly interrupted by the greasy teenager behind the bar. 

“Here.” 

Sighing slightly, Hugh turns back to the ice cream.  Paul takes another step towards the counter as Hugh swaps his cone for a bill. 

“I’ve just been having a bad day, voice-wise-”

Again, he’s interrupted.  “Your change.” 

“Thanks,” Hugh says, not even kind of meaning it as he dumbs the coins into the charity box by the cash register and turns back to Paul.  “I don’t know what it was, I just-”

This time, it’s Paul who cuts him off.  “Look, you had your chance and you blew it.  Better luck next time.” 

“But I wouldn’t have got the callback if I wasn’t any good,” Hugh tries.

In another bout of rudeness, Paul completely ignores him.  “Mint choc chip – in a cone, please,” he says as the teen fixes him with that glassy gaze. 

In another lifetime, Hugh might have commented about the hideous ice cream choice, but he really needs this job.  “I’m perfect for Angel,” he says, eyes still fixed on Paul.  “Come on.” 

Paul continues to ignore him. 

The teen holds out Paul’s ice cream, and Paul hasn’t got his wallet out yet.  Good – Hugh’s looking to take any opportunity he can get.

So he passes another note over the counter.  Which was kind of a dumb move seeing as he could barely afford an ice cream for himself, but at least Paul’s looking at him now.  It is not, unfortunately, a friendly look.

“You really think that’s going to get you the part?” Paul asks, brows raised. 

“No,” Hugh replies.  It’s true – an ice cream isn’t going to get him the part.  But he has Paul’s attention now at least.  There are other ways to get roles, Hugh knows, things he’s never tried before in his life and promised himself he never would.  But at this point he’s desperate, and he’s broke, and well, Paul is actually quite a pretty man… 

“But maybe if I took you to dinner we could find out what would.” 

He regrets it as soon as he says it.  Behind the affront splashed over Paul’s face, there is a very small smirk, and Hugh really can’t tell if that’s good or God-awful.

“I’ve heard of it happening,” Paul says, shaking his head now, “but I’ve never had someone proposition me before.” 

“Sorry, I didn’t-”

“For a role?  I mean, I know it’s Broadway, but still.” 

“I wasn’t-”

“That’s how you get blacklisted.” 

And with that, Paul turns towards the door.  As he pulls it open, Hugh moves towards him again. 

“I just really need a job.”

Paul looks at him, not an ounce of pity in his face.  His eyes then turn to the paper taped to the door’s glass.  “Well lucky you – these guys are hiring.” 

Paul moves away again, but there’s something in Hugh that urges him on, and he’s not entirely sure that it’s just the need to make rent anymore. 

Outside, the April sun is hot as ever, and Hugh’s ice cream is already starting to dribble down his hand.  Paul’s making his way back to the studio building, and he’ll be gone in a minute, and Hugh is very aware that it’s now or never.  There aren’t many people around.  So Hugh does yet another thing he’s never done before: in broad daylight, on the streets of Manhattan, he starts to sing. 

“Live in my house, I’ll be your shelter.  Just pay me back with one thousand kisses.” 

Paul turns around. 

“Be my lover and I’ll cover you.” 

“This is a joke,” Paul says, cocking his head to one side.  “I’m on a prank show, right?” 

Honestly, Hugh has no idea what he’s doing at this point.  So with no other option coming to mind, he just keeps going.  “I think they meant it when they said you can’t buy love, now I know you can rent it, under lease you are my love.” 

“This isn’t something I’ve heard of happening before.”  Is he smiling?  Hugh’s pretty sure Paul is smiling now.  But still, he turns back around and continues walking to the studio.  More for the sake of seeing this through than anything, Hugh follows.  And yes, he’s somehow still singing. 

“Just slip me on, I’ll be your blanket.  Wherever, whatever, I’ll be your coat.  You’ll be my king, and I’ll be your castle.” 

And then, barely audible, Paul picks up Collins’ part: “You’ll be my queen, and I’ll be your moat.” 

“I think they meant it,” Hugh sings, and he’s positioned himself in front of Paul now, and Paul’s fixing him with a look that Hugh can’t read, “when they said you can’t buy love, now I know you can rent it, under lease you are my love.”

“Wait a minute, okay, stop for a minute,” Paul says, holding his free hand up.

Hugh falls silent, standing still in front of Paul. 

“What is this?  You trying to get the part still?  You do sound better than you did in the audition, but why is that?  Is it because you mean it?  What?”  He moistens his lips.  “What do you want to get from me?” 

Hugh swallows.  “What do you want to give?” 

Paul says nothing, and he’s still fixing Hugh with that unreadable gaze. 

“A thousand sweet kisses?” Hugh sings, softly now. 

And, honest to God, Paul laughs.  A soft chuckle, and a smile has broken over his face.  “How about we start with my phone number?” 

“I’m happy with that,” Hugh replies, pulling his phone from his pocket.

“You’re aware that this has absolutely no bearing on the result of your audition?” Paul says as he taps his number into Hugh’s phone. 

“Good.  I’d hate to be one of those awful seduction stories.” 

“Too late,” Paul laughs.  “And I think I’ll buy dinner.” 

“What?”

“Well, if I buy dinner then you can be sure you didn’t get the part because you took me to dinner, right?” 

Hugh grins.  “Right.” 

“Besides, the way you said you ‘really need a job’; sounds like you can’t afford to take me anywhere nice.” 

“Okay, yeah.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Paul smiles.  And then, ever so softly, he sings: “I’ll cover you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks nonny! and thanks for reading
> 
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> [support me through ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain)
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> [send me a prompt](https://godblessintheflesh.tumblr.com) \- I also accept prompts in comments and messages here on AO3!


	6. Where the Sand as Silver Shines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from the gorgeous [@pumpkino](http://pumpkino.tumblr.com) on tumblr: "pls pls pleeeeease could you write a shore leave beach day thing???". Babe I'm sorry it a) took so long and b) is so short but I finally did it!! (I.. am not great at fluff. I hope you like.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a short fluffy thing that does what it says on the tin essentially. They do drink alcohol, but that's about it for possible uncomfiness for anyone I think. Also the 'laceseel' I mention in the last paragraph is just a thing I made up. Some sort of alien whale thing. Big, peaceful - you get the idea. 
> 
> The title from this fic is from one of the first poems I learnt by heart: _The Secret of the Sea_ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The apartment wasn’t so large, or so well placed, or even so comfortable as it might have been, but then this part of Europa was a tourist-stop and Starfleet wasn’t really in the habit of putting their crew up in five-star resorts if they could help it.  So Hugh and Paul spent their ten days of shore leave in Starfleet’s one residential block in Salacia, situated in a dingy corner of the town near one of the exit tunnels.  But for all they cared, the apartment could have been a single room.  They had a while away from the pressures of work, they had all the stupid luxuries Salacia had to offer, and most importantly, they had each other. 

Salacia was kept warm, always.  The temperature fluctuated slightly to emulate what you’d expect from surface conditions; most of the people who visited had regular lives on planets or moons elsewhere and rather enjoyed the feeling of being on some lovely stretch of land.  Paul had pointed out several times already that this was bizarre. 

“Why don’t they just go to Hawaii?  It’s much cheaper.”

“Assuming you’re already on Earth,” Hugh added, smirking slightly at his husband.  They were walking around one of the markets, occasionally picking up the cheap and colourful tat so many of the tourists took home as souvenirs. 

“Loads of planets have places with warmer climates,” Paul retorted. 

“True.” 

“So why do people want to spend a ridiculous amount of money to stay here?  It’s pretending to be a surface beach town.  Just go to a surface beach town.”

“I guess there’s something appealing about all this being under water.  Watching the native marine life.” 

“Through the glass.” 

“You can get the ‘ocean experience’ at some of the beaches.” 

“Again – it’s faking it!  You can’t actually swim out there, the pressure would kill you.  So they make these dumb ‘sea bubbles’ and fill them with fish and plants and stuff they found out there.  Surely you think that’s cruelty to the animals?” 

“I looked into it – they actually did a really great job, they only have the small marine life that doesn’t need to move much or take up a lot of space, like on Earth reefs.”

“My point is: it’s all fake.  Why do people want to do it?” 

Hugh raised his eyebrows.  “You want to do one of the ocean experiences, don’t you?”  

For a moment, Paul was silent as he stared at his husband.  He put down the little model of Europa he’d been scowling at.  “Yes, I really do.” 

Hugh laughed, and took Paul’s hand.  “Lunch first?” 

“Sounds great.” 

* * *

 

There was a stack of beach umbrellas at the entrance by the row of kiosks that were ready to provide swimming costumes and surfboards to anyone and everyone who’d realised they’d forgotten theirs too late.  Hugh picked up a huge pink umbrella with one hand, his right arm still linked through Paul’s left. 

“Show off,” Paul chuckled. 

The pair ambled down the sandy steps to the stretch of beach bellow.  Earlier, Paul had quipped something about the number of beaches in Salacia being ‘frankly ridiculous’, but as the synthetic sunlight dulled into a soft warm evening, Paul was glad.  In spite of the hustle and bustle of the tourist town, the number of beaches meant that each could seem almost quiet.  Finding the perfect spot was easy enough – every spot in Salacia was designed to be perfect – and Hugh unhooked his arm from Paul’s to set up the umbrella. 

“Why did you even grab that?” Paul asked, soft smile still in place as Hugh dug the thing into the sand.  “It’s evening.  Light’s fading.” 

“It sets the mood,” Hugh said, plonking himself down in the shade. 

“I see.” 

“Come on then,” Hugh smiled, his eyes wandering to the picnic basked in Paul’s hand. 

Paul knelt down before his husband and flicked open the clips.  “Wine?” 

“Please.” 

There were two wine glasses fastened to the lid of the basket, and Paul handed one to Hugh before pulling out the bottle of sweet pink rosé.  The glasses filled, he slipped onto one hip, leaning into Hugh with a sigh. 

“To ten days of this,” Hugh said, tilting his glass to Paul’s. 

Paul clinked them together.  “To ten days of bliss.”

“Every day is bliss when I’m with you.” 

Paul smirked as he sipped his wine, gazing at Hugh and meeting the laughter in his eyes.  “That’s disgusting,” he said. 

In lieu of response, Hugh leaned forward, pressed the softest of kisses to his husband’s wine-sweet lips, and grinned.   

“Want your salmon?” 

“Sounds great.” 

As Paul dug into the picnic basked once more and the waves lapped against the sand, the peace of the next days stretched out before them in all their glory.  The apartment was waiting for them with its soft sheets, and the morning would be softer still, and they’d walk on the beaches and swim in the fake reefs and dine at the best restaurants and eat the trashiest doughnuts this tourist town could offer.  They’d return to the Discovery, and their work, and their lives amongst the stars again soon enough.  For now, a laceseel made its slow way through the water above them, and they drank their rosé, and they laughed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks bab!! you can follow my wonderful pumpkin [here on tumblr](http://pumpkino.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> [support me through ko-fi!](https://ko-fi.com/noahandtherain)
> 
>  
> 
> [send me a prompt](http://godblessintheflesh.tumblr.com/ask) \- I accept prompts in comments and messages here on AO3 as well! I've recently started writing daforge ficlets as well (which will be published over the next few days) so if you'd like to request a daforge ficlet feel free to do so. actually if you check out my tumblr I can probably be persuaded to write a ficlet for almost any pairing or fandom I blog about - just ask!


	7. Good Grief Good Heavens Good Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from the lovely Johnda - "last night was a haze for both of us and somehow we woke up hungover in a bed that isn’t either of ours and also neither of us recognize this apartment we should probably get out of here before someone calls the cops on us" au?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly Johnda I'm so sorry I did it again - I noted the prompt down wrong and missed the last part of it. Ah well - I hope you enjoy this little ficlet anyway! 
> 
> Only thing that might be a problem for people in this one is alcohol use, as suggested by the prompt. 
> 
> This title is from Keaton Henson's poem _Nightdrinking_

The first thing Paul was aware of that morning, as the sun dragged him from his dreamless sleep, was the dull ache in his head.  He pulled open his eyes, but the soft white curtains barely made a dent to the harsh morning sun.  Paul’s eyes closed again.

And then he opened them. 

He didn’t have white curtains.  So where the hell-

There was a movement next to him, and Paul shot up.  Regret immediately flooded him as his head raged against the sudden movement and the white bright sun.  He squinted over to the shape lying beside him and… oh shit.

Hugh Culber. 

Paul desperately tried to wheel his mind back to the previous evening.  Work had finished, and everyone in the office had been invited to Brett Anderson’s retirement party.  They went to a bar, and in ordering his third gin and tonic he ended up next to Hugh, which was always mortifying.  And then Tilly dragged Michael over and ordered shots for the four of them, and Paul had agreed because maybe shots would make being so close to Hugh less stressful, and then… the evening started to fizzle out.  More shots definitely happened, and his stomach fluttered with anxiety as he vaguely recalled saying something dumb and true to Hugh.  But after that: nothing. 

Well, obviously not nothing.  He was in bed with Hugh fucking Culber.  Whatever he’d said, it had been the right thing. 

Or maybe it was the wrong thing because if Hugh had just agreed for a drunk fuck then he’d probably blown his chance at an actual relationship with the man – as if he’d ever had a chance in the first place. 

God, what had happened? 

But then, Hugh started stirring.  He groaned, wincing before he’d even opened his eyes.  His hangover must be as bad as Paul’s – good sign.  It was completely unfair though that Hugh should look so damned pretty still when he was passed out drunk. 

Hugh sighed, and opened one eye.  Paul gazed back down at him.  And then Hugh was definitely awake. 

“Paul?” he said, and his voice dragged across his throat like it was gravel.  Great – now Paul knew exactly how fucking attractive Hugh sounded in the morning.  Perfect. 

“Hello,” Paul replied, pulling his mouth into a mirthless smile. 

Hugh gazed around the room vaguely, and then pushed himself up to sitting, leaning back on the headboard as he did so.  “Did we, uh…?”

Paul moistened his lips.  “I think so.” 

“You don’t remember?” 

“Do you?” 

Hugh frowned in concentration, and Paul could almost see his mind working to pull through the crashing waves of the hangover into the murkier depths of last night.  Finally, Hugh sighed.  “Tilly bought shots.” 

“I remember that,” Paul said. 

“Several times.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Fuck.  That’s it.  I haven’t got that drunk in a while.” 

Paul puffed out a vague attempt at a laugh.  “Neither have I.” 

Hugh dragged a hand over his face, blinking at the room around him again.  With a heavy, aching movement, Paul swung his legs around to dangle off the side of the bed.  He’d suddenly become aware that his mouth felt like sandpaper. 

“I’m gonna get some water,” he said, and then let out a shaky breath.  “God, I think this is the worst hangover I’ve ever had.  The room feels like it’s swaying.” 

“It does, doesn’t it?” 

Paul cast another glance around the room, avoiding looking directly at the all too bright windows.  “I have to say,” he said, a chuckle in his voice again, “from your desk, I thought your place would be messier than this.” 

There was a beat of quiet.  Hugh was still waking up.  “What?” came Hugh’s voice, and Paul noted it was already lightening out of the gruff morning gravel. 

“Come on, Hugh.  Your desk is a tip – papers piled to the ceiling, pens on the floor, crumbs everywhere.  I kinda thought your apartment would be the same.”  Paul looked again at the small bedroom, at its off-white walls and the blue streak running around them, and the matching bedspread. 

“What are you talking about?” Hugh asked.  “You mean this isn’t…?”  He trailed off, and Paul twisted around to face him.  The confusion that had been in Hugh’s voice was melting from his expression, replaced now by a look of horrified realisation. 

“What?” Paul asked, anxiety fluttering again in the pit of his stomach. 

“This isn’t your place?” Hugh asked, meeting Paul’s eye. 

Paul gaped at him.  “N- no.” 

“Shit.”  Hugh looked around the room again, desperate for clues.  “Shit, Paul, where the fuck are we?” 

Hesitantly, his stomach clenching, his mind reeling, Paul pushed himself up off the bed.  He looked now at the window – it was a floor-to-ceiling affair, but other than the white of the sunlight, Paul realised he couldn’t really see anything through the translucent curtains.  He stepped towards them, pulled one back, and-

“Oh fuck.” 

Behind him, Paul heard Hugh scramble across the bed to his side of the room.  “What?” he was asking, panic in his voice.  “Paul?  What?”  But before the power of speech had returned to Paul, Hugh was at his side, pulling back the other curtain. 

“Oh fuck.” 

Blue.  Miles and miles of deep blue stretched out before them, as far as the eye could see. 

“That’s… that’s why the room’s swaying,” Hugh said, and his voice sounded like it was trying to retreat back into his body. 

“Uh-huh.” 

Barely thinking, Paul reached for the handle in front of him and slid open the glass door.  The cool salt breeze hit him squarely, and he blinked.  Just outside, there was a small balcony of dark wood and silver metal, with two cushioned wooden chairs and a glass table, perfect for enjoying the endless sea view.  Paul stepped onto the balcony. 

A voice to his right cut through the air. 

“Hey, Paul.” 

Paul’s head whipped around to see Sylvia Tilly.  She was sitting on one of the wooden chairs on the balcony next door, sipping what looked to be iced coffee from a straw.  Paul simply gaped at her.

“So we fucked up, huh?” 

A foghorn rippled through the quiet morning air.  Paul winced, and from behind him, Hugh groaned in pain again. 

“Yeah, Tilly,” Paul sighed.  “We fucked up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And thank you darling Johnda for the prompt. You can find the lovely Johnda on tumblr [on tumblr](http://sad-is-happy-for-deep-people.tumblr.com)
> 
> [support me with ko-fi](ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain)
> 
> I am still taking prompts! You can send me prompts [on tumblr](godblessintheflesh.tumblr.com/ask) or through messages and comments here on ao3.


	8. The Ones We All Have and Lose With Our Milk Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from the wonderful Gene from [this promps list](http://godblessintheflesh.tumblr.com/post/177762754981/64-sensory-prompts) \- "Finding old photographs you'd fogrotten about"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Gene! I love this prompt because it's so suggestive of nostalgia and like.. sepia tones and dusty memories you know? Such a nice vibe. I didn't do that though.
> 
> No content warnings for this one! 
> 
> The title is from _Grow Up With Me_ again by Keaton Henson.

“Oh my God.” 

Paul’s head flicked up, brow creasing as he looked over to his fiancé.  Hugh was standing across the room, a large box on the table beside him, and in his hands he held what looked like some sort of smaller orange box.  It was fairly shallow, and square, but sizeable enough to…

_Oh shit._

With an ice-cold splash in his gut, Paul launched himself across the room.  How had he forgotten?  His mama was into all things retro, including décor, and one aspect of this meant Paul’s childhood home had been lined with these clunky, brightly coloured picture frames.  Paul felt his face going red.

“Give me that,” he half-yelled, his stomach dropping at the shit-eating grin spreading over Hugh’s face.  

“No,” Hugh beamed, edging his way around to the other side of the table. 

“Hugh!”

“Why should I?” 

“Come on!”

At this point, Paul had chased Hugh around the table, but Hugh was just gleefully dancing out of his reach. 

“I’m taking this back to the ship.” 

“You are not.”

Hugh gazed down at the photo again, grin widening, and Paul took the pause to dart under the table and pop up right next to Hugh.  Laughing, Hugh stuck his hand in the air and held the picture frame above Paul’s head. 

“That doesn’t work when I’m taller than you,” Paul said, reaching up to grab it.  Hugh, however, bent his arm, waving the frame behind him and out of Paul’s reach.  Fuming, Paul leapt at Hugh, who just leaned back across the table to keep the frame out of Paul’s grasp. 

“I swear I’m gonna murder you!”

Hugh was too busy laughing for response. 

At that point, the door to the cluttered living room opened, and Paul’s little sister appeared.  For a moment, Mags stood in the doorway, eying her brother and his fiancé.  In her hand was another box.  Paul and Hugh straightened up.  Hugh was still giggling, frame held behind his back. 

Mags brought the box into the room and slid the box onto the table.  She shook her head slightly.  “Newlyweds.” 

“We’re not newlyweds yet,” Paul said, rolling his eyes.

“This one is school stuff,” she said, fixing her gaze on Paul.  “Projects, homework, I think there are a couple of school play programs.  Some of it might be mine or Mark’s so put that to one side won’t you?” 

Paul shrugged.  “Sure.”

Mags looked over to Hugh.  “What is that?” she asked, brow creasing in exactly the way Paul’s did. 

“It’s one of mama’s photo frames,” Paul replied, the crimson blush darkening on his cheeks. 

Mags’ face lit up.  She gestured to Hugh to show her, and Hugh brought out the photo.  Finally, Paul got a look at which photo it was. 

If he thought he’d reached peak embarrassment, Paul suddenly found that he was wrong.  The photograph in question was from when he was about six years old – shortly after he’d started going by ‘Paul’ – and he looked just about as dorky as a kid could get.  The teeth that he had were too big, overcrowding his mouth, but there was a rather large gap where he’d lost an upper and lower tooth that lined up perfectly.  His clothes were on the large side, and the less said about his hair the better.  And he was utterly caked in mud; it was on his face, his knees, his hands and arms almost up to his elbows.  He was carefully cupping a clod of mud with some small red mushrooms shooting out of it.  The broadness of his grin almost matched Hugh’s. 

“Oh God,” breathed Paul, wincing. 

Hugh turned to Mags.  “Can I keep this?” he asked. 

Mags beamed and nodded at exactly the same time Paul cried “No!” 

Mags then began signing to Hugh, and as Paul translated, his horror grew.  “Actually I have two other boxes stuffed with pictures like this.  I think we have some holiday photos, and there’s definitely more at mom’s apartment.  I think she has vids of- okay Mags stop!”

Both his sister and his fiancé looked at Paul with possibly the most devious smiles Paul had ever seen. 

“If we’d just got married on the ship this wouldn’t have happened,” Paul sighed, both speaking and signing. 

Mags tried to look offended, but she was too busy smirking to pull it off. 

“Can you get the other boxes?” Hugh asked, facing Mags. 

She nodded, signing something to Paul as she went. 

“She said two minutes- but you can be longer,” he added to Mags. 

She laughed.  “Not on your life.” 

Paul buried his face in his hands as Hugh gazed at the photo, still grinning.  “I’m gonna put this on my end table,” he said. 

“You are not.”  

“Try and stop me.” 

Paul glared.  “I’m gonna divorce you.  At the reception.” 

“Worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find the lovely Gene [on tumblr](stellaviatores.tumblr.com)
> 
> The photo I'm describing is actually an art done by the wonderful pumpkino, which you can find [here](pumpkino.tumblr.com/post/172531024108/heres-a-baby-mushroom-stamets-0)
> 
> My current laptop is ten years old and on it's last legs, and without it I won't be able to keep doing ficlets. I'm hoping to be able to afford a new one in January 2019, but if you like my writing then please consider chucking a few quid in my [**tip jar**](ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain) so I can get one sooner!!
> 
> I'm still taking prompts and suggestions! You can send me a prompt [on tumblr](godblessintheflesh.tumblr.com/ask) or through messages and comments here on ao3. 
> 
> Have a lovely day!


	9. L’espace Entre les Peaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon send me prompt 92 from [this list](http://godblessintheflesh.tumblr.com/post/177485311293/drabble-list-2) \- "Don't sell yourself short."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the prompt! This is a very short light bit of fluff. Hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Set sometime before Paul joined Starfleet. He's preparing for a presentation or a lecture or something.
> 
> No content warnings for this one. 
> 
> This title is from an untitled poem by Michel Houellbecq, in English "The Space Between Skins"

Paul sighed again, and shifted with his padd.  He scrolled back up the reams of notes, which seemed to stare back at him with something bordering on malice. 

“I don’t know about the neurological effects bit,” he said, frown deepening.  “We just don’t know enough to even broach that topic yet.” 

“Isn’t that part of the point?” Hugh asked.  He was gazing at Paul through the viewer, and though his face was serious, his eyes were soft.  “You want to convince people that this deserves greater study, right?  More resources, more people, more consideration in the wider scheme of things.  If you want neurologists looking into this, you’ve gotta tell them that there’s something for them to look into.”

“It doesn’t sound a bit… I don’t know- weak?”

“No.” 

Paul flicked his eyes up to the viewer again, to the stable, solid form of his Hugh, in his Starfleet uniform, using his lunch hour just to talk to him.  Paul managed a smile. 

“Sorry for freaking out on you like this.” 

“Oh come on,” Hugh said, almost with a laugh.  “You can freak out on me all you want.”

Paul started scrolling through his padd again.  “It’s just I’ve never done one of these without Strall before.” 

“I know,” said Hugh.  “But sometimes family’s gotta take priority.” 

“I know that,” Paul huffed. 

“And,” Hugh continued, with a slight roll of his eyes that Paul, too caught up in his notes, mercifully did not see, “he wouldn’t have left you if he didn’t think you could do it.”

“Well, maybe Strall’s not the best judge of that.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short.”  Paul met Hugh’s eye again, finger still poised over the padd.  Hugh took a slow, practiced breath, which Paul automatically followed.  Then, Hugh smiled, and for a second the idea that everything was going to be alright was an indisputable fact.  “You can do this,” Hugh said, and Paul believed him. 

“I wish you were here,” Paul sighed, holding one hand up to the viewer. 

The smile softened, and Hugh held his hand up in return.  “Me too.  But only three more weeks!”

“Two weeks, six days, and seven hours,” Paul corrected. 

“Even better.” 

For a moment, the two stayed like that, hands pressed together in spite of being millions of miles apart. 

Then Hugh sat back in his chair.  “Do you wanna go through it again?” he asked. 

“Yes please,” Paul said, swivelling his stool around and getting to his feet. 

“Do you want me to stop you, or give notes at the end?” 

Paul considered for a second.  “Notes.” 

“Sure thing.”  Hugh slid his own padd towards himself on a desk Paul couldn’t actually see, and picked up a pear.  “You don’t mind if I…?” 

“Course not,” Paul scoffed.  “It’s your lunch break, eat your lunch.  Honestly, you need to sort out your priorities.”

The pear crunched under Hugh’s teeth, and Paul smiled at his ridiculous, wonderful partner.  “Whenever you’re ready,” Hugh said. 

Paul took a deep breath, and began to present his speech again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I'm currently trying to save up/raise funds for a new laptop seeing as the one I'm currently using is absolutely on its last legs. Hopefully I'll be able to get one in a few months, but this one might peg out before then, so the sooner I can replace it the better. If you like my ficlets and/or have ever sent me a prompt and you are able, I would really appreciate if you'd throw some change in my [**tip jar**](https://ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain)
> 
> I am still accepting prompts! I have a few backed up for culmets but I also do [daforge ficlets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15833289) so feel free to send me a prompt for those boys if you'd like! I accept prompts on [tumblr](http://godblessintheflesh.tumblr.com/ask), as well as in comments and messages here on AO3. I can also be persuaded to write ficlets for other fandoms ( _In the Flesh_ , _The Adventure Zone_ , other _Star Trek_ things, pretty much anything I blog about), and non-pairing based ficlets. Just shoot me an ask and if I think I can write it, I will. 
> 
> Thanks y'all! Have a great week <3


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